Harry Potter and the Alchemist
by retrod
Summary: Voldemort is dead, but a greater threat has risen to challenge the wizarding world. Harry Potter, unable to stem the rising tide, is sent back to the past. Can he stop the horrors before they truly begin, or has he doomed himself to repeat his nightmare? [Man, I suck at summaries.]


High in a castle tower, a snowy-bearded old man sat stoically; quietly sipping on his amber colored beverage, lost to his current tidal wave of thoughts. The sun had set mere minutes prior, but already the room was cast in deep shadow. It would have been effortless for him to light the hearth, let alone a few candles; but so intent was he, in the object of his musings, that he hadn't moved in well over an hour, save for occasionally lifting his glass to take a drag of his firewhisky. An old cloak lay spayed on the surface of his ornate desk, the sight of which visibly upset the otherwise unflappable elder.

A series roucus bangs from the courtyard below finally roused the headmaster from his bitter contemplations. Any other day, he would have expected such an occurrence to herald the arrival of properly cowed youngster, but this wasn't any other day. Rising to his feet, Albus Dumbledore lazily strolled to his westward-facing window, just as a brilliant display of sparks flashed past before a much louder bang issued from the nearby exploding fireworks; bringing a sad smile to his weary-worn face. The somber mood permeating the office belayed the exceedingly celebratory state the rest of Wizarding Britain was experiencing. Every portion Albus could see of the castle grounds, in the dwindling twilight, were filled with students, truly joyous for the first time in far too long.

Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was defeated. The self appointed dark lord had been the bane of good natured witches and wizards for nearly twenty years. Many scores of them were murdered or tortured at the hands of Voldemort, and his Death Eaters; though the muggle world suffered all the more greatly, in spite of not even being aware of the threat. The dark lord, and his followers, were of a single mind in their hatred of muggles, and the muggles' magical offspring, who they saw as usurpers of the pureblood wizards' birthright. So greatly was he feared that very few souls were brave enough to even speak his name. Yes, Lord Voldemort's defeat was cause for all to celebrate in a way they hadn't for so long; except, of course, for those facing trial for the atrocities committed in his name.

Alone, Dumbledore was, in his refusal to partake in the festivities occurring in every corner of Hogwarts castle. His refusal was fueled by guilt. Not guilt for committing crimes in the name of Voldemort, as he had certainly never done; quite the contrary, in fact. The headmaster was actually a hero to all who dared defy the monster; so why then was he in such a morose funk? It was guilt at being the reason two, nearly three, people had died the night prior. Oddly enough, it was the death of these people that saw the downfall of the most feared wizard in history. That knowledge was a mere pittance of comfort. Logically, Albus knew he was not to blame for the deaths of James and Lily Potter, but he could not shake the pit of shame that had risen in his stomach. No one could understand how the attempted murder of a small child could usher the in death of a seemingly immortal beast, though Dumbledore had his suspicions. None of this could change the fact that two of his favorite former students were dead, orphaning their only child.

At that thought, he sighed and turned to stare, once again, at the ancient garment on his desk. The cloak could easily have saved the Potters from their tragic fate, but he had been so enamored by its hidden power, that he had deprived James of his ancient family's longest held heirloom. He had requested it earlier in the week, for study, unaware of the fact that it would be needed to save the lives of its owners in just a few short days. The Cloak of Invisibility was a powerful relic of the ancient world, and one of three seemingly innocuous items that, when united, would grant the bearer powers far beyond that of any mere mortal. They were the Deathly Hallows, and together would make their bearer the master of death, itself.

The Deathly Hallows had been an obsession of Dumbledore's since his early life. With age, and some powerful experiences, came the realization that such a power could do nothing but destroy; and so, the professor gave up his foolish ambition; choosing, instead, to live for his noble calling as teacher and mentor to young minds in need of education and direction. A fulfilling life, to be sure, and Albus had no regrets in that regard; but when the artifact had come to his attention, his old obsession returned with abandon. With hindsight, the Headmaster had to acknowledge his suspension of wisdom and the terrible damage it had caused.

Any joy he had garnered by the happy exuberance of his students vanished quickly upon returning his thoughts to his great shame. Slowly he removed an ornately carved wooden instrument from inside his sleeve and gazed at it, momentarily, before igniting his fireplace with a lazy gesture; sighing as he did so. Upon returning to his chair and firewhisky, he laid his magic wand atop the cloak and downed the last ounce of his drink.

Dumbledore was about to retire to his connected suite, when the air surrounding him suddenly became heavy with a magical charge. His senses on high alert, he stood with a speed that belayed his advanced age; wand already in hand and steadily pointed toward the center of the room, where a large cracked stone gateway was flickering in and out of existence, in rapidly increasing succession. In a matter of seconds, the gateway fully materialized and a young man was hurtled through before it closed in on itself with a flash of brilliant blue light, and a loud clap.

Without wasting any time on disbelief, Albus Dumbledore flourished his wand at the newcomer while shouting "Expelliarmus!" A red flash of light issued from the tip of his weapon and was sent speeding toward the unmoving newcomer. An instant before it would have hit its intended target, the spell rebounded on its caster with the sound of a dull gong being struck. The headmaster was so stunned by this turn of events, that he had not properly shielded himself before he was struck by his own spell. The wand that had been his ally for near half a century was wrenched from grasp and sent sailing through the air before being swiftly caught, as if on instinct, by the young raven-haired man laying prone before him. In this moment, Dumbledore recognized just who had come through the portal. Uttering a word of stunned disbelief; with wide eyes he whispered "James."

It was a few seconds before the young man stood, shakily as he did so, and answered. "I'm not my father," he said. Upon closer inspection, the man did look very much like James Potter, but with subtle other differences; foremost being his emerald-green eyes. James' eyes were brown.

"Who are you," demanded Albus, gazing intently at his intruder. The finality with which he asked it was testament to his Gryffindor heart. Even without his wand, Dumbledore was formidable; but the fact that this unknown man now held the Elder Wand, would have been cause for anyone to feel a swell of dread. Dumbledore, however, pushed his growing sense of fear aside in hopes that he could think of a way to overcome the suddenly more powerful wizard.

"Harry Potter, professor. I came back here to change... well, everything. What's the date, today?" The assured calm with which the young man said it did little to assuage the headmaster's trepidation because of one glaring fact.

Almost conversationally, Dumbledore spoke. "I have never known of a 'Harry Potter.' James has no living relatives, so unless you can convince me otherwise, I see no point delaying the inevitable with this pointless exchange. I don't know how your master died, so kill me and be done with it, Death Eater; but rest assured, I shall resist with all the power I have, and I have a considerable amount." Dumbledore's words were met with a confused expression. A few beats passed before a look of recognition passed over Harry's features.

"Voldemort's dead? So I'm at least in 1981..." The young wizard's words devolved into quiet muttering as his gaze seemed to turn inward. Dumbledore, seeing his change, quickly raised his hand. There was a flash of red and gold as Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix familiar, answered his master's wordless summons and began racing toward the old man. With a speed few wizards could accomplish, Harry flicked his newly acquired wand toward the large bird of prey. With a shout of "Arrestomomentum," Fawkes was frozen in midair. "I don't mean to be rude, professor, but I can't have you disappearing on me. I came here to talk to you. It's extremely important, so use whatever means you need to be able to determine the truth; Veritaserum, if you must." With that, he strode to a chair in front of the desk, behind which Dumbledore still stood, and sat; laying the Elder Wand on the desktop before him, still clearly within reach.

"Very well. I will listen to what you have to say." At that, the headmaster returned to his chair. Harry took up his wand, once again, as Dumbledore opened a drawer to his left. Raising his hands in a sign of nonaggression, the old man carefully pulled out another glass; and a phial of clear liquid from the drawer beneath the first one. Reaching for his snifter of brandy, he poured two glasses; upending the container of truth potion into the cup he then passed to the young man sitting across from him.

Harry took the proffered glass and downed its contents in a single pull, wincing slightly as the bitter alcohol burned its way down his throat. After a moment of silence, he set down his wand and commenced with his story. "As I said, professor, I'm Harry Potter; son of James and Lily. I came from the future; 2003, to be exact. Well, sort of. It's more of universal travel, rather than time. I was assured this world was almost exactly the same as the one I left. The world I came from was... in a bad way. Unsaveable."

"Voldemort returned? I knew Tom wasn't truly gone." Albus Dumbledore stated, his curiosity getting the better of him. The headmaster had always prided himself on his almost infallible intuition, so when his gut screamed that Voldemort still lived, he felt certain it was so.

"No-well, yes, but that's not why I came here. Voldemort returned in my fourth year at Hogwarts, and I killed him for good, in my seventh. I destroyed his horcruxes and fought him in the Great Hall, actually."

"Horcuxes? That explains how he survived his rebounded curse. No wizard I've ever heard of has created more than one of those abominations. How many did he make?" Dumbledore asked, leaning forward in his chair now, clearly interested in what this 'Harry Potter' was telling him.

"Seven." Harry said and began counting them off with his fingers. "His diary, his grandfather's ring, Slytherin's locket, a cup owned by Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw's crown, and... me." Harry said, lightly tapping the lightning bolt scar above his right eye. "Though he didn't mean to turn me into one, he was planning to create his seventh horcrux with my death. He was certain seven horcruxes would make him truly invincible, and who better to be his last sacrifice than the boy prophesied to be his potential downfall? Fat lot of good it did him. Anyway,-" but Harry was interrupted before he could continue with the new direction toward which he was trying to steer the conversation.

"You know of the prophecy? How?" The shrewd old man asked, all pretense of threat gone due to the inescapable effects of the Veritaserum. He now knew Harry was telling the truth, or at least what he believed the truth to be.

"You told me, sir. At the end of fifth year, right after S- right after Voldemort tried to kill me for it, in the Department of mysteries." Even after all these years, and all the loved-ones he had seen die, Sirius Black's death that night was still an especially painful memory. His godfather was the first real chance he had at a family.

"Anyway, I didn't come back to talk about old Voldy." After a pause that felt like an eternity, Harry continued. "There's someone else. Someone worse. Even after Voldemort was killed, the disappearances continued. If anyone had thought about it logically, it didn't make sense why Voldemort would make people disappear; before he stepped out of the shadows, sure, but why would someone so intent on being feared quietly erase someone from existence?" Dumbledore had to admit, it didn't make sense. Tom Riddle had an insatiable flair for theatricality. Ready to know more, the wizened old professor waited for young mister Potter to continue.

"We never found out his name, or even if he exists; we just called him 'the Alchemist.' No one ever saw him. About a year and half after Voldemort's defeat, the ministry was attacked. A couple hundred people apparated into every corner of complex, attacking anyone in sight. Only a few people survived. The minister was killed immediately, in the first wave. The government was never able to recover. As quickly as they came, they disappeared. Over the next three years a handful of splinter groups and factions tried to assert dominance. There was a civil war unlike anything we'd ever seen. Anytime it seemed like it was over, those people would show up again; kill some faction leaders, and rekindle the war. The Order of the Phoenix mostly stayed together, trying to fight the real threat, but eventually we started getting picked off one-by-one. We still don't know why, or even if, the disappearances are connected to them."

It was at this point that Dumbledore decided to speak up. "These mystery wizards, who were they?"

With a sigh and a shake of his head, the young wizard forged on. "No one knows. We called them phantoms. They would aparate in, start throwing the worst curses imaginable, and then disaparate before anyone could do anything. No warning, and almost never any survivors. Those who lived were thought to be addled, at first, until they all started reporting basically the same things about the enemy. Magic could barely touch them. Spells would just bounce off of their skin. It was like they were covered in dragon scales, but they looked normal; all except for their eyes. They all had the same electric blue eyes, and wore identical expressions... lack of expressions, really. They were all completely deadpan. No emotion whatsoever, not even when throwing killing curses."

"A few of us manage to kill some. I think that was when they started hunting down Order members. Since magic was almost entirely ineffective against them, Hermione had the idea to start carrying guns. They could naturally reflect magic, but bullets were useful; especially silver bullets. Most of the purebloods refused, since muggle weapons were considered beneath them, but a number of them grudgingly gave in after we had killed a few. When they died they would just turn to ash. No screams. No cries of pain. Just dust. It was this fact that made us believe they were some sort of construct. People don't turn to ash, and they weren't vampires. Since we decided they were most likely constructs, there had to be a constructor; or constructors." Dumbledore sat in rapt silence, leaning in and listening intently to every word Harry spoke. "Even with the ability to hurt them, we didn't last more than a couple years. Most of the wizarding world was embroiled in the civil war, and silver bullets are hard to come by."

"How did you survive?" Dumbledore asked, speaking for the first time in a fair few long minutes. Harry hesitated, the effects of the Veritaserum having recently started to wane; wondering how much he should tell his old professor. Remembering how he had hated it when Dumbledore himself would tell half-truths, or simply refusing to offer the information he seeked, Harry continued.

"Because of those." He said, with a nod of his head toward the two present pieces of the Deathly Hallows; the Cloak of invisibility, and the Elder Wand. "I am the Master of death." Dumbledore could not stop the look of utter shock that crossed his suddenly pale face. "It's why your disarming charm rebounded. I actually... died a few times, but kept coming back, so I could keep fighting. In the end, I realized it wasn't enough."

"And the resurrection stone. Where is it?" Albus asked, once again drawn to the Hallows.

"I won't tell you that, professor, for your own good. It... it killed you, or... would have, anyway, if a Death Eater hadn't done it first. The stone had a powerful curse on it that was slowly killing you. The curse weakened you, which led to your death. Sort of. Before you try anything, I'm a very accomplished Occlumens." Harry let this statement hang in the air for a moment, as the headmaster appeared properly chastised.

"Anyway. I saw almost all of wizarding Britain fall. By the time I left, the phantoms were spreading into other countries. It was obvious they were going after the entire magical world. It was actually Death that brought me here. The morbid arse actually joked that he was feeling overworked. He said I had to die to get here, but death only releases the soul; I had to bring my body with me, or end up like Voldemort after the first time he died. So, I apparated to ruins of the Department of Mysteries and jumped through the Veil before any of the phantoms realized I was there. I don't know how long the journey took. It felt like thousand years in a single moment. The next thing I know, I'm here and being attacked by my second favorite professor. By the way, you never answered my first question. What's the date?" With that question, Harry concluded his story.

"November first, 1981." Dumbledore replied, noting with some consternation that Halloween was only yesterday. It felt as though the old man had aged a decade since his obsession had caused the deaths of James and Lily Potter, the day prior.

"So my parents died, yesterday. I wish I could have been here to save them, but Death could only guarantee a general time range. No knowing when precisely I would turn up." Harry said, more to himself than his former mentor. When he glanced at Dumbledore again, he saw tears forming in the corners of the elder's downcast eyes. "Please. Sir. Don't blame yourself. My mum's death is what gave me the power to defeat Riddle. I realized years ago that there was no escaping that prophesy. As hard as it is to admit it, their deaths saved millions of people. At least, until the phantoms showed up." Dumbledore slowly nodded, and Harry waited for him to get ahold of himself. It didn't take more than half a minute for the man's usually stoic demeanor to return.

"Now, professor, there's something else I want to talk about. You said you've never heard of a Harry Potter. Did my parents not have me, in this world?" Harry asked, trying to overcome his confusion.

"Iris Diana Potter. She is the daughter of James and Lily. Their only child. It's one of the main reasons I did not believe you, at first. I still have my doubts about the authenticity of your story, but I hold no reservations about the fact that you believe it to be true. If you would permit it, I would ask to view your memories in my Pensieve." Dumbledore said, curiosity evident in the lilt of his voice.

"In a bit, sir. First, I have a few conditions. I want Iris removed from the Dursleys, Sirius out of Azkaban, and the ministry hunting for Peter Pettigrew. He betrayed my parents and killed those muggles, not Sirius." Harry said with finality. Dumbledore was shocked at the revelation.

"I will do what I can for Sirius, if it checks out, but I cannot allow Iris to go elsewhere while Voldemort is still at large. I cas-"

"Cast a powerful ward that would protect her and the Dursleys while she could still call her mother's relatives house 'home.' Yeah, I know. I thought about that before coming back. I'm our mothers' relative, right? If you could cast the charm on Petunia, you should be able to cast it on me." It was in this moment that Dumbledore accepted all Harry had told him as fact. No one, not even Minerva, knew of the blood magic he had employed to protect the girl.

After a sizeable pause, Albus nodded. "I will... thoroughly consider it." Realizing that was as good as he was going to get, for now, Harry nodded. After a moment, he stood and walked to the display case, in which resided the Pensieve, and brought the stone basin over to the desk. Moving the cloak aside, he set it down and brought the tip of the Elder Wand to his temple. When he pulled the wand tip away from his skin, a thin, silvery, gossamer strand came with it; and Harry dropped it into the basin. After repeating this action a number of times, he began to swirl the contents of the Pensieve with the tip of his wand. As the memories swirled he motioned for Dumbledore to enter. The old wizard leaned headfirst over the basin, and plunged in; his body following his head as he was seemingly cast into the bowl by his own chair. Harry followed a moment later.

Harry was six years old and had dry blood covering his lower face. His portley cousin Dudley had just broken his nose and given him a black eye. They were sitting in the headteacher's office; harry on his red-faced, large-bellied Uncle's left, Dudley on the man's right. "Well, boys will be boys." Vernon laughed, trying to pass the even off as nothing more than the adolescent squabbling of children. On the way home Vernon never ceased his hatred fueled tirade against his 'freak' of a nephew, sentencing him to three days without food before the memory ended and another began.

Harry was nine years old. The Dursleys were opening their many Christmas gifts in the living room while Harry sat in his closet, unwrapping his lone gift, the wrapping paper consisting of an old paper shopping bag haphazardly folded around a bundle. It was an unwashed pair of Dudley's old underwear. Again, the scene changed.

Harry was seventeen, shouting at a red haired youth to destroy a locket. There was ghostly image of Harry and a pretty young lady suspended in a cloud of smoke, issuing from the open locket, taunting the ruddy young wizard. After a moment's hesitation, he stabbed the eye at the center of the locket, with the Sword of Gryffindor; Dumbledore just then noticing what the young man held. He then realized he had just witnessed the demise of a portion of Voldemort's soul. Another memory began.

Harry and Voldemort were circling each other in the Great Hall that usually served as the dining hall for Hogwarts' many hundreds of students. Students who now formed a ring around the two soon-to-be-combatants, along with many others. Harry was relaying everything that had been done to ensure the mortality of the once-great Tom Riddle, Voldemort getting angrier with every passing word. A short exchange of spells later, Harry stood triumphant of the corpse of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The professor was shocked at the anti-climactic nature of the duel. Again, the memory shifted.

Harry was older, his early, twenties Dumbledore guessed. Not at all dissimilar to how he looked now. He was standing among a crowd when, all of a sudden, there were numerous pops that Albus knew heralded the arrival of a wizard via apparition. Immediately, the evening was alight with countless spells hurtling in all directions. Harry had just retrieved his wand from its holster when a green flash erupted in front of his vision. All went black. Soon, the world came back into focus as Harry awoke. There were bodies everywhere. Not even the children were spared. With this, the duo felt themselves deposited back onto terra firma; the memory trip ending.

Dumbledore was the first to speak. "That was... enlightening. I will have Iris away from your aunt and uncle as soon as I can, and will assist you in any capacity I am able, in order to keep your past from becoming our future." Harry smiled in spite of the haunted look that had adorned his features since returning from the Pensieve.

' _Finally_ ,' Harry thought, ' _a chance to fix it all_.'

* * *

Well, that's it for the first chapter of my first fic. I'm not British, if you couldn't tell, so any help in UK-ifying this thing would be greatly appreciated. Google can only do so much. Any other constructive criticism is appreciated. I'm mostly posting this to gauge reaction. If people like it, I'll continue to the best of my ability. I know where I want this story to go, but am unsure of my talent as a writer.

I don't own the Harry Potter franchise. Duh. If I did, I wouldn't be posting this here!

That's all for now, fellow humans. Thanks for the read!


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